


These Cold and Damp White Mornings, I have Grown Weary

by sweetxtangerine



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Blasphemy, Blindfolds, Bondage, Cunnilingus, F/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Pansexual Character, Past Abuse, Priest Kink, Priest!Newt, Self Insert, athiesm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetxtangerine/pseuds/sweetxtangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in an alternate universe in which Newt's grown up in an abusive conservative family, he, pressured by his father, became an ordained priest at the age of 24. K-Day soon follows, and he questions why he ever became ordained to begin with.</p>
<p>Also there's a lot of sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Cold and Damp White Mornings, I have Grown Weary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellarrium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarrium/gifts), [inglouriousmusic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=inglouriousmusic).



> So, this really began as a porny self-insert fic for a couple of friends and now it's a 3000 word multiple part porny self-insert fic for said friends, and now I'm publishing it online.  
> I'm really questioning my life choices.

i.)

Newt is so withdrawn from who he used to be. From who he wants to be.

He'd only gotten ordained because his father wanted him to, and if he could do anything to diffuse the tension in his family, he would.

He's always been the odd one out. No siblings, but cousins, and of all of them, he was the one who stood out. He was the one who got caught sneaking out drinking and smoking pot. He was the one who'd dated men as well as women (and didn't consider it "just a phase".) He was the one who was never certain of his faith in God.

But he was the one who became a priest.

If it made his dad happy, maybe it would be worth it.

Ordained at 24, the second priest to become ordained that young. Moving from the city to the church was a huge challenge, but it was all for the greater good, he figured.

When you see him you want to break him so desperately. He's older than you, but he's so young and so beautiful. You can see it. He's unsure of himself. He hates himself and you don't know why but you want to find out.

During a service, you convince him to join you in the confessional during another priest's sermon and it doesn't take long till you're sitting on his lap, kissing his neck, listening to him whimper, feeling him hard, writhing beneath you, grinding against you.

You fuck him hard, and have to clamp your hand over his mouth when he comes to muffle his scream. The other priest finishes and he has to give the concluding rite. You can see his hands are shaking as he lifts them to the lord and invites the mass to confession afterwards.

 

ii.) 

After the service has ended you’re waiting in a pew. It takes a while, but you sit until lines to confession slowly diminish. 

And you know where he is.

And then everyone’s left and you go to his booth. He’s about to leave, he has a hand pushing open the door, but you call out for him to wait and he draws back.

You kneel at the screen. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned,”you say, “I have never confessed before.”

His breath hitches, and he should be telling you “You’re not meant to be in here, you’re not Catholic!” But he doesn’t. Because he recognizes your voice.

You barely know each other but he absolutely recognizes your voice. You were the one who asked him to fuck you. You were the one who kissed him hard and he kissed back so hungrily you tasted blood when you licked your lips. You were the one who guided one of his hands up your shirt and the other down the front of your panties, who slid against his thumb as he rubbed deliciously against your clit.

You were the one who pulled his vestments off, who bit his nipples and traced the trail of hair that led to his groin as he whimpered. The one who took off the stupid studded belt he wore underneath the robes that no one was meant to see. Who sucked and licked and teased him until he was squirming and then slid onto his cock and rode him until he only saw white.

So he should be telling you to leave his confessional, but he doesn’t, because he’s hard again already and he needs to hear your voice again.

“Tell me your sins,” he says, and it’s a croak.

 

iii.) 

You start slowly, drawing out each syllable. It should sound odd; it should sound strange, but it’s the only way he can keep up. Everything is sensation.

“I tempted a priest,” you tell him, your voice even and calm. “I tempted a priest and fucked him in this confessional. And I’d do it again.”

You hear him exhale and you smile.

“God, there’s so many things I’d do to him. He’s so young, so beautiful. So breakable.”

You breathe out hotly and it sounds more lewd than you’d intended, but you hear him shift uncomfortably in his seat, so you’re having the intended effect.

“There’s so many thing’s I’d still do.” You close your eyes and smile. “What should I do, father?”

There’s a long moment of silence and then you hear him lick his lips.

“You cannot be forgiven if you do not truly regret your sins,” he murmurs.

“I don’t,” you clarify. “I ought to have been more clear. No, I meant to ask what I should do _to you_ , Father.”

There’s another moment of silence before you speak again.

“God there’s so much I could do to you,” you savour the way he whimpers, “What’s your name, Father? It’s Newton, right?”

He makes a soft grunt.

“Can I call you Newt? Or do you prefer Father?”

“Call me Newt. Only my family calls me Newton.”

You nod, even though you know he can’t see it.

“Or,” you sigh, “I could always just sit on your lap and call you daddy.” You smile at the sound of his strangled gasp, “But then again, you’re a priest. You probably have enough daddy issues already and I don’t want to make you come again too soon.”

He moans, and it’s so erotic and so beautiful.

“Do you want me to fuck you again, Newt?”

The silence is so profound, and it last for what seems like a millennia but then:

“Yes,” he whispers, and it’s a choked whisper. It’s delicious.

“Yes, what?” You ask, and it takes him only a split second to catch on.

“Yes, _please_.”

“Good boy,” you smile, “Where do I begin? There’s so much- I want to destroy you, Newt. I want to fucking tear you apart.”

You hear him shift in place, hear the fabric of his sleeves slip up his arms, and then—the unmistakable sound of a zipper (poorly masked by a cough). He’s still wearing his fucking jeans under his robes, which is stupidly hot, though not as stupidly hot as the knowledge that he’s getting himself off in a confessional listening to your voice.

You keep talking, telling him how you’d bind his wrists and unbutton his trousers with your teeth, how you’d palm him through his briefs while you grind against his leg. He has such a pretty mouth, you say, and you’ll teach him how to use it.

You hear the occasional soft moan, and you know he’s stroking himself, fisting his cock, flicking his thumb over the slit.

“You want this, don’t you, Newt?” you goad, “Want to be controlled only by your impulses; to let me take you. Let me fuck you, Newt. Let me sit on your face while you fuck me with your tongue. Let me ride you so hard you can barely breathe. Your nose rubbing against my clit, so fucking wet, smearing across your face.”

At this point now it’s like he’s not even trying to stay quiet. You can hear him stroking himself, getting more erratic with each moment.

“Stay quiet,” you chide, “We’re in a church, after all.” And this only makes him moan more loudly.

Newt whimpers as he slicks his palm with beads of precome, which only adds to the smoothness of the strokes. It feels even better.

“I want to pull at your hair until your head hurts, to bite you, to mark you, to know that the bruises under your robes won’t be fading anytime soon, and that I was the one who put them there. I want you writhing beneath me. I want to ride you so hard, to fuck you against the wall, to tear you apart until you break.”

You hear a strangled moan and you know he could come.

“Stop,” you say, and the noises stop. All that’s audible is shallow breathing. You’re so aroused, but you’ve made up your mind.

“Well, it was great seeing you, Newt,” you say, “Are you free sometime this week?”

You get up and start opening your door, and he scrambles. “Wha- that’s it, you’re leaving?”

You open his door and see him, covered in sweat, hand sticky, cock hard and heavy, pupils dilated, and hair messy. “Are you free this week?” you ask again, and after a moment he nods, vigorously.

You lean in and draw him into a violent kiss. You make sure you taste blood before you withdraw. His pupils are blown and he looks so desperate, so you smile at him and leave, closing the door to the confessional behind you. You leave him so hard and wanting.

As you leave the church you swear you can hear a muffled scream as he strokes himself twice more and bites down on his fist as he comes.

 

iv.)

It’s been a month and a half since K-Day, and a month and a week since you met him. It was only meant to be a one, or rather, two-time thing, but he needs this and you realize you need it too; some sort of human contact. He’s someone who doesn’t sweeten the world, but revels in its calamity with you.

You mostly stay at hotels on nights he can get away which, to be honest, isn’t as often as you like. Other nights, when you’re alone, he visits your apartment.

And when you’re together, you’re like fire. After five years of celibacy he’s very eager, and makes a point of letting you know when he’s begging for you to tie him up and sit on his face. And after five years of celibacy, it’s the little things that set him off. He almost comes when you bind his wrists with a rosary.

Most nights when he gets to the hotel you greet him by slamming him against the wall and pinning his hands above his head, as you draw him into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongues. You work on drawing out his orgasms; work on slowing everything down so when you fuck him it lasts so long he sees stars when he comes.

And then one night it’s raining and it's been a few days now since the reports have started coming out about the toxic effects of Kaiju Blue and Newt calls you and asks if he can come over, and of course it’s okay, and he does.

And when he arrives he’s drenched and he’s wearing a worn button-up and worn jeans and you’re pretty sure he’s had them for years, and he looks so old, like he’d aged ten years in a day.

You let him in and when he’s stepped past the threshold he’s shaking and tears are streaming down his face. He’s so broken and so beautiful and you run your fingers through his hair and he let’s out a sob and cries into your shoulder.

Twenty minutes and a finger of whiskey later, you ask what’s wrong, and he sighs. His eyes are red and his pupils are dilated and he has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And then he takes a deep breath and opens himself to you. He tells you about Catholic school and about his first girlfriend.

He tells you about his perfect cousins who never did anything wrong, and about how he’d tried to get away from his family for so long, he finally accepted it and accepted the life they wanted for him.

He tells you how when he was fifteen he met a girl with soft lips and a soft smile and took him to a party who sucked his dick in someone else’s bedroom and told him the next Monday that it was a mistake and she didn’t want to see him anymore. 

He tells you how when he was sixteen he met a boy who went to the public school across the street from his school, who’d promised not to tell when he’d kissed him. He’d excelled in science courses and shared his biology notes with Newt and recounted his more interesting lectures, and Newt soaked up the information, hungry for more.

He tells you about when he decided to study theology, how the boy had shouted at him, that he had so much potential and he was wasting it on a god he didn’t even believe in.

He tells you how they didn’t stay in touch, and last time he’d heard from him, he was a fully qualified biologist living in America.

He tells you how he’d just learned he was one of the scientists based in San Francisco who’d died of Kaiju Blue poisoning.

He’s nearly sobbing again, and he leads you to bed. It’s the most innocent thing, how he takes you by the hand and sits down and slowly unbuttons his shirt.

“I need to show you this,” he tells you, and you nod. It’s not your turn to undo him. And as he slips off his shirt and pulls his undershirt off, you realize you’ve never had a chance to see him so closely before. It’s always been in the dark when you’ve fucked him. Tight corners, dim rooms; you’d never before seen him bare.

He stretches out and you appreciate how tight his stupid jeans are and how much you want to draw your fingers across his stupid tummy.

He props himself up with his elbow and gestures to his shoulder. “I’ve had this since I was sixteen,” he points to something small on his shoulder, and you realize it’s a cross. “India ink and a sewing needle,” he smiles faintly, “My parents threatened to kick me out when they found out about it. I thought it put me  _closer to god_.”

You spend an hour tracing his scars, his freckles, the little trails of hair that curled around his chest. You kiss the marks on his arms—a cigarette burn he got when he’d been caught smoking; a short scar that you can tell was a nasty gash at one point—he’d gotten that when he climbed over a chain link fence running from the cops after a party. You caress the marks on the small of his back that came from his father’s belt.

It’s the first night you fuck without the purpose of destroying him--with some intention of balance and solace.

The next time you see him, he has a black Kaiju outline tattooed across his torso.

 

v.)

It’s almost been six months, and you’re neck deep in research. The world has recovered, and now you need to study it. You don’t see him as much as you’d like anymore, but Newt comes with you to the lab sometimes, and he devours it.

You ask him why one day, and he shrugs. “I’m never gonna make a difference if I can’t do anything useful.”

Two months after the Kaiju attack, the body was divided up and sent to more prominent labs across the world for study, and you’re lucky enough to work with it. You let him study your textbooks and explain the significance of different samples. He learns so quickly and so thoroughly, it’s almost alarming. He needs more.

His absences from the parish are starting to be noticed.

You spend your nights together tracing the ink beneath his skin. Trespasser is in full colour now, and its long since healed. He’s so proud of it.

Then it hits the six month mark, and everyone feels like it should be a celebration, until another Kaiju shows up in Manila and thousands more people die, and it’s terror again. The first one appeared and we were able to take it down. But it took six planes and three nuclear bombs and thousands of deaths and absolute catastrophe. And now there’s another. And would there be another after that one? And another after that?

As each day passes, Newt grows more volatile. He’s so frustrated, so open, and so empty. He’s reckless and beautiful, and so, so human.

He begs to be fucked and you relish the way he shudders when you blindfold him, the way he’s so desperate and eager for your touch as you slowly trace your fingers down his stomach, as you wrap your fingers around his cock. How he bucks into your hand and whimpers when you pull away.

You love how he begs you, how he pulls at your hair when your mouth is around his cock, how he runs his fingers along your scalp, grabbing suddenly in anguish when you do that thing with your tongue that makes him _scream_.

When he’s blindfolded, he’s so hypersensitive. Every touch makes him whimper, and it only makes it hotter the way he cries out when you peg him into the mattress. He loves to be filled, and you’re happy to oblige. You fuck him till tears are running down his face and you can taste the salt on his lips when you draw him into a kiss. You fuck him, holding onto his hips to steady yourself, and bind his wrists so he can’t touch himself. When he comes, he comes so hard he blacks out.

Another six months pass, and another Kaiju comes. You come home one night and find Newt waiting for you, high off the adrenaline that accompanies another tattoo, and it’s the first time he really takes control.

He throws you on your kitchen counter and kisses you. He rubs you through your jeans till you scream at him to take your clothes off, and then he pulls your trousers off in one smooth motion, and pulls your panties down with his teeth. He throws your legs over his shoulders and dips down and spits on his fingers and runs them along your cunt. Then he sweeps his tongue along you so deeply that you shudder. He uses two fingers and then three, slick with saliva, to rub your clit as he continues to tongue fuck you, his stubble rubbing against your thighs. Your legs are spread, ankles hooked together behind him. He goes painfully slow at first; stimulating enough that it feels _good_ , but using so little pressure that it’s exhausting. And then, without warning, the pressure builds. His movements become so intense; you thrust against the rhythm, unable to keep up. It only takes a moment. He makes this obscene slurping sound, a string of saliva trailing from his tongue, and rubs his knuckle in a circular motion around your clit, pressing _hard_. You come in a series of spasms, his tongue still on you as you convulse, and you fall back (nearly sending a stack of plates flying).

He’s painfully hard, dripping, and he takes a moment of your post-orgasmic bliss to finish getting himself off, and then you curl up together in bed.

“There’s going to be a war, isn’t there?” Newt says.

You don’t say anything.

“There is no fucking god.”


End file.
